


You May Feel Some Slight Discomfort

by Transcriptase



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transcriptase/pseuds/Transcriptase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times Mercy treated Soldier:76. Many things change after the fall of Overwatch. Some things do not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You May Feel Some Slight Discomfort

**Gibraltar, 2059**

“I was very specific, Commander,” Angela Zeigler said as she twisted Jack Morrison’s foot sideways, testing the range of motion.

He disguised a grunt of pain as acknowledgment. “The ankle’s not the problem, doc,” he said. “It’s been fine since the day after you looked at it.” With his left arm, he gestured vaguely at his right, in its combat-expedient sling.

Angela pointedly ignored the new injuries. “Yes. It was during that previous examination that I was very specific. You have a very good memory, so I suspect you remember what I said.” She rolled the ankle to the other side and filled the intervening awkward pause by watching his reaction.

Another sharp exhalation. He was sure he made it sound like a weary sigh. “Ice and elevation until the swelling goes down,” he recited. “And it worked, doc. Felt great.”

Angela dropped his foot and began untying the blood-encrusted sling. “And what else?” Her arms encircled his neck, deft fingers worrying at the improvised knot, but her gaze was fixed firmly on her work.

“No strenuous activity for at least a week,” he sighed.

“And do you consider a combat mission strenuous, Commander? I personally find them strenuous. Terrifying, and exhausting, and _strenuous_.”  She caught his wrist as the sling dropped free, mostly preventing the wounded arm from taking any weight. Mostly. “I know we take medical leave very seriously in Overwatch. The only way to override my rest order would be with…”

“The Commander’s signature,” finished Jack.

 

* * *

**Dorado, 2072**

She woke with a start and quickly determined that the scratching and thumping noises that had awakened her were indeed coming from inside her hotel suite. Her hand settled on the cool weight of her pistol, and it whirred to life in recognition of her palmprint. She vaguely remembered a time when she had been reluctant to carry it.

As she stood and padded to the door of her bedroom, she was suddenly aware of her flimsy nightclothes. They, and sleeping with the windows open, were concessions to the Dorado heat that both suddenly seemed like bad ideas. No help for it now.

She slipped around the doorframe and raised the front sight of the pistol to her eyeline.

She found she was convincingly outgunned. The figure silhouetted against her living room window carried an enormous, blocky pulse rifle. He was wearing a mask over his face, with a dimly glowing red line where his eyes should be. Her breath caught as she fought panic.

The tip of the rifle dropped and the figure sagged, catching himself on a chair. She heard him suppress a cry of pain, and she knew.

It was Jack Morrison, and he was hurt. Again.

* * *

**Gibraltar, 2059**

“Lie down,” she said, sharply. He complied.

She unwound the makeshift bandage. It, and the shirt under it, was sticky with clotting blood. She grabbed shears and slid them down the sleeve and across his chest, then peeled the remains of the shirt off.

“On this mission, did you perhaps find that you moved more slowly than you expected to? Perhaps you did not reach cover quite in time? And then…” She probed the area of the wound with her fingers, gently working around the actual bullet hole. “I would say, caught a hit that knocked you over, tried to catch yourself, and found you could not?”

“Very perceptive, doc.” Jack said.

“Well, if you are at all interested in my medical opinion-- a proposition, I should say, for which I so far have no evidence-- you were extremely lucky.” As she spoke, she filled a syringe with local anesthetic and injected it in one smooth motion, holding his shoulder down. She chose a pair of forceps from the tray and inserted them smoothly into the wound, digging for bullet fragments.

“The bullet was a ricochet, and stopped when it hit the bone. So it merely cracked your humerus, rather than shattering it and passing through to your chest. And you managed to avoid compounding the fracture during your fall.”

His breathing came ragged as she dug around in the wound. “So, this is what lucky feels like,” he rasped.

For the first time, her eyes came off her work and met his. Brilliant blue, sharp, and cold. “Yes, Commander, it is.”

* * *

**Dorado, 2072**

“How did you find me?” she asked. She should probably have lowered the gun, but she didn’t.

A shaky laugh. “Some of us have gotten hard to keep track of, but not you. I knew you were in town with the delegation.”

“Yes, well, we all must find ways to stay busy these days,” she said. “I, for instance, have been trying to eradicate neopox. While you, apparently, have been faking your death and carrying out unauthorized paramilitary strikes.” Finally, she lowered the gun. “ _Mein Gott_ , that Lumerico thing was you, wasn’t it? I should have known.”

“Angela,” he says. She notices a trail of dark, sticky footprints on the tile behind him.

“Lie down on the couch,” she says, resigned. “I’ll get my things.” She turned to retrieve a bag from the closet. “It is my duty as a physician to advise to you seek care at a proper medical facility,” she called behind her. She knew what he’d say. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.

“No hospitals,” he said. “It would be bad for my health in other ways.”

She returned with the bag and pulled a chair up near the couch. “I went to your funeral,” she said.  “We all did-- all of us who were left. I didn’t know Oxton even owned a black dress.”

The red line where his eyes should be turned away, silently.

* * *

**Gibraltar, 2059**

He shrugged, or tried to. His right shoulder wasn’t cooperating. “It was my fight, doc. I had to be there.”

She dropped the twisted remains of a bullet into a tray and reached for her sutures. Her clinical detachment  faded briefly, and she almost smiled. “Yes, of course, this mission was very important. And the next one will be, and the one after that. All very important.”

Was she mocking him? “Every drop I’m on saves lives. Every Omnic factory we shut down, every evacuation we escort-- people live who would have died if I wasn’t there.” Forgetting the ongoing procedure, he started to sit up straighter, but found Angela’s restraining hand on his shoulder, heavy and firm like cold iron.

“Calm down, Jack. Of course the missions are important,” she said, pulling a stitch tight. “That’s why I go on them. And Reyes, and Amari, and Reinhardt, and Lacroix… Very capable people.” Another stitch. “If you’re going to lead Overwatch, you’re going to have to learn to trust people.”

She cut the thread and swabbed the area with alcohol. As she wrapped the site in a clean bandage, she said, “Starting with me, when I tell you to avoid strenuous activity of any kind for two weeks.”

She retrieved a sling and fit it around his neck, and then helped him as he clumsily got his arm into position. “I suspect you will find this order easier to comply with, as you will find it very painful to put any weight on this arm for the duration.”

She finished tightening the sling and raised her hands to his face, where a purpling bruise was rising over his cheekbone. He started to say something, but her hands dropped. “Ibuprofen for the swelling, four times a day. Call me if things get worse.”

* * *

**Dorado, 2072**

“Can you get this thing off?” Mercy asked, gesturing at the heavy leather jacket.

“That would involve raising my arms,” he said. “So, no.”

She nodded, and worked with the zippers and shears until she could see his chest. She suppressed a gasp. She had found her own ways of dealing with the toll of the passing years, which had left her feeling stretched thin and tight, like a vibrating wire. But Jack… His body was an archaeological ruin. Every battle had left its stratum of scars.

She went to work. The source of the bleeding was shrapnel wounds on the right side of the torso-- four small ones and a big one. Clear the debris, disinfect, and bandage. Three fractured ribs, same side. Nothing to do but wrap the chest. Finally, the right shoulder, dislocated.

She rested her hand the shoulder, ready for the necessary push, but stopped. She had to ask. “How can you be willing to do this to yourself, when you wouldn’t fight for us?”

“Overwatch was dead, Angela. No one believed in us anymore. This is the best I can do now.”

“It wasn’t dead until you gave up, Jack. You have to learn to trust people.”

He snorted. “I did trust people. Congress. The UN. Reyes, McCree. The Blackwatch project. We know how that turned out.”

She shook her head, frustrated. English, with its lack of specificity. “Not _persons_ , Jack. _People_. Humanity. That they can see the truth when you show it to them. That we all-- together-- can make the world better than it used to be. That you have more to fight for than avenging a dead dream.”

He didn’t meet her eyes.

“All right, then. You may feel some slight discomfort.” With a practiced hand, she pulled his arm down and back and felt the joint sink back into place with a pop. Morrison gasped out a ragged, muffled scream, then flexed his arm experimentally.

She helped him to his feet and walked with him to the door. “That shoulder will be sore for a while, and it will always be prone to coming out again. The broken ribs mean it will hurt to breathe. Watch the stitches for infection. I recommend…” She didn’t know if the sound she fought down was a sob or a laugh. “I recommend avoiding strenuous activity for at least two weeks.”

She slid back the deadbolt and held the door open for him. “You’re fighting the wrong battles, Jack.”

“Maybe. But they’re the only ones I know how to win.”


End file.
